deeply； his confession pleted。 〃Like the lawyer feller says； Frank； 'Further deponent sayeth not。〃
Several dissuading arguments came immediately to my mind； but I remained silent； of course。 As far as I was concerned； what Ed Middleton did was his business； not mine； but his loss to the game would be felt in the South。 We needed men like him to keep the sport clean and honest。 But I didn't say anything because of my self…imposed vow of silence。
Up to this moment I've never told anyone why I made the vow。 What I do is my business； but the silver medal on Ed Middleton's watch fob held the answer。 Money had nothing to do with my decision to keep my mouth shut。
All of us in America want money because we need it and cannot live without it； but we don't need as much money as most of us think we do。 Money isn't enough。 We must have something more； and my something more was the Cockfighter of the Year award。
The small silver coin on Ed's watch fob was only worth； in cash； about ten or fifteen dollars； but a lot of men have settled for lesser honors。 A man may refuse a clerk's job with a loan pany； for instance； for one hundred dollars a week。 But if this same man is put in charge of three typists and is given the exalted title of office manager； the chances are that he will work for ninety dollars a week。 In business； this is a well…known 〃for instance。〃
Unlike Great Britain； we don't have any peerages to hand out； or any annual Queen's Honors List； so most of us settle for less； a hell of a lot less。 In large corporations； the businessman has reached his goal in life when he gets a title on his door and a corner office with two windows instead of one。 But I'm not a businessman。 I am a full…time cockfighter。
My goal in life was that little silver coin； not quite as large as a Kennedy half dollar。 On one side of the medal there is an engraved statement： Cockfighter of the Year。 In the center； the year the award is given is engraved in Arabic numerals。 At the bottom of the coin are three capital letters： S。C。T These letters stand for Southern Conference Tournament。
To a noncocker； this desire might sound childish； but； to a cockfighter； this award is his ultimate achievement in one of the toughest sports in the world。 The medal is awarded to the man Senator Jacob Foxhall decides to give it to at the pletion of the annual S。C。T。 held in Milledgeville； Georgia。 However； Senator Foxhall doesn't always see fit to award the medal。 In the last fifteen years he has only awarded the medal to four cockfighters。 Ed Middleton was one of them。
In addition to the medal' there is a cash award of one thousand dollars。 In effect； the cocker who wins this award has the equivalent of a paid…up insurance policy。 He can demand a minimum fee of one hundred and fifty dollars a day as a referee from any pit operator in the South； and the operator considers it an honor to pay him。 To a cocker； this medal means as much as the Nobel Prize does to a scientist。 If that doesn't convey an exact meaning of the award； I can state it simpler。 The recipient is the best damned cockfighter in the South； and he has the medal to prove it。
For ten years this medal has been my goal。 The S。C。T。 is the toughest pit tourney in the United States； and a cockfighter can't enter his game fowl without an invitation。 Only top men in the game receive invitations； and I had been getting mine for eight years…even during the two years I was in the akmy and stationed in the Philippine Islands。
A vow of silence； however； isn't necessary to pete for the award。 That had been my own idea； and not a very bright idea either； but I was too damned stubborn to break it。
Three years before I had been riding high on the list of eligible S。C。T。 cockfighters。 In a hotel room in Bioxi； I had gotten drunk with a group of chicken men； and shot off my big mouth； boasting about my Ace cock； a Red Madigan named Freelance。
Another drunken breeder challenged me； and we staged the fight in the hotel room。 Freelance killed the other cock easily； but in the fight he received a slight battering。 The next day at the scheduled S。C。T。 pitting； I had been forced to pit Freelance again because I had posted a two…hundreddollar forfeit； and I had been too ashamed to withdraw。 Freelance lost； and I had lost my chance for the award。
A few weeks later； while brooding about this lost fight； a fight that had been lost by my personal vanity and big mouth； I made my self…imposed vow of silence。 I intended to keep the vow until I was awarded that little silver medal。 No one； other than myself； knew about my vow； and I could have broken it at any time without losing face。 But I would know； and I had to shave every day。 At first it had been hell； especially when I had had a few drinks and wanted to get in on the chicken talk in a bar or around the cockhouses at a game club； but I had learned how to live with it。
On the day Mr。 Middleton picked me up in his Cadillac at Captain Mack's Trailer Court in Belle Glade； I hadn't said a word to anyone in two years and seven months。
〃You're a hard man to talk to since you lost your voice！〃 Ed Middleton boomed in his resonant baritone。
With a slight start； I turned and grinned at him。
〃I mean it；〃 he said seriously。 〃I feel like a radio announcer talking into a microphone in a soundproof room。 I know I must be reaching somebody； but I'll be damned if I know who it is。 You've changed a lot in the last two or three years； Frank。 I know you're working as hard as you ever did； but you shouldn't take life too seriously。 And don't let a run of bad luck get you down； do you hear？〃
I nodded。 Ed jabbed me in the ribs sharply with his elbow。
〃You've still got a lot of friends； you big dumb bastard！〃 he finished gruffly。 With a quick movement he snapped on the dash radio； twisted the volume on full and almost blasted me out of my seat。 He turned the volume down again and said bitterly： 〃And on top of everything else； there's nothing on the radio these days but rock 'n' roll！〃
He left the radio on anyway； and said no more until we reached Saint Cloud。 We pulled into the parking area of a garish drive…in restaurant and got out of the car。 It was only six thirty； but the sun had dropped out of sight。 There were just a few jagged streaks of orange in the western sky； an intermingling of nimbus clouds and smoke from runaway muck fires。 As we admired these fiery fingers in the sky； Mr。 Middleton smacked his lips。
〃How does a steak sound； Frank？〃
I certainly didn't intend to spend my remaining ten dollars on a steak。 In reply； I emptied my pockets and showed him a double handful of junk； and some loose change。
〃I didn't expect you to pay for it；〃 he said resentfully。 〃Let's go inside。〃
The sirloin was excellent。 So was the baked potato and green salad and three cups of coffee that went with it。 After three weeks of Dody's halfhearted cooking； I appreciated a good steak dinner。 On regular fare； such as greens； pork chops； string beans； cornbread and so on； I'm a fairly good cook； and I enjoy the preparation of my own meals。 But I never prepare food when I have a woman around to do it for me。 As I ate； I wondered vaguely how Jack Burke was making out with the girl。 Although I was broke； the steak restored my good spirits； and I felt a certain sense of newfound freedom now that I no longer had Dody to worry about。
We lingered over dinner for more than an hour and didn't arrive at Mr。 Middleton's home until after nine。 His ranchstyle； concrete brick and stucco house was about three miles off the main highway on a private gravel road and pletely surrounded by orange groves。 An avid fisherman； Ed had built his home with the rear terrace overlooking a small pond。 He parked in a double carport； set well away from the house； backing in beside a blue Chevy pickup。
Before we crossed the flagstone patio； Ed flipped a switch in the carport and flooded the patio and most of the small lake with light。 The pond was about forty yards in diameter； and there was an aluminum fishing skiff tied to a concrete block pier at the edge of the gently sloping lawn。
〃I've stocked the damned lake with